Unschooled

About the Author

Lisa spent twelve years as a NYC private school teacher. Her Live You With Lisa brand is designed to help people share their truths.

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Dedication

I dedicate this book to my sister, my world.

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Lisa Smith

Unschooled

Copyright © Lisa Smith (2018)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Ordering Information:

Quantity sales: special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloguing-in-Publication data

Smith, Lisa

Unschooled

ISBN 9781641823081 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781641823098 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781641823104 (E-Book)

The main category of the book — Biography & True Stories

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2018)

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC.

40 Wall Street, 28th Floor

New York, NY 10005

USA

mail-usa@austinmacauley.com

+1 (646) 5125767

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Acknowledgments

I would like to thank the following for making this book possible: God, my mother and father, my sister and brother-in- law, my brother-in-law’s mother and father, my nieces and nephew, my grandparents, my aunts and uncles, my cousins and my loyal friends. You lighten my life. Thank you to my editors, John Hanc, Anna Marrian, Christina Bryza, Catherine Martin and Alexandra Berkley, for shaping this project.

To all my teachers and to every one of my students—I learned everything through you. To every person whom I’ve ever crossed paths with, you’ve left an imprint on my soul.

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Table of Contents

Preface—Model Teacher

Chapter 1—Day One

Chapter 2—Looking Good

Chapter 3—Just Getting Started

Chapter 4—Learning to Juggle

Chapter 5—Where It All Began

Chapter 6—School Events

Chapter 7—Moving to the Middle

Chapter 8—Adventures in Brilliance

Chapter 9—Role Model

Chapter 10—AA

Chapter 11—Just Like Me

Chapter 12—Not Another Subway Ride

Chapter 13—The Tipping Point

Chapter 14—Breaking Through

Chapter 15—A New Day One

Chapter 16—Domestic Violence

Chapter 17—Telling the Parents

Chapter 18—Meeting My Father

Chapter 19—Seeds for a Better Future

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Preface—Model Teacher

I spread out my stash onto the smudgy mirror on top of my kitchen counter. Trying to stand up straight in spiky heels, my legs shook with excitement as I crushed up the rock. Bending down, I pushed aside the homework assignments I planned to grade along with my long, brown hair and snorted three huge lines with a decrepit straw that was tucked in my back pocket from the weekend before. Homework would get done on the subway before school. As soon as the cocaine hit my stomach, I darted to the bathroom and vomited twice. I flushed the toilet, wiped the spit from my chin and brushed my teeth, eyes already bugging jaw clenching, and heart racing. I only meant to have one line but three seemed better.

As I stood in front of my sixth-grade class earlier that day, physically I was there, but my mind had already left the building. Flipping through my lesson—persuasive writing—I mapped out my evening, a familiar routine.

At 4 p.m., I’d call my drug dealer, who would deliver to my downtown apartment. I’d get high by myself, catch up with my girlfriends and hit the clubs. I might find a sexy girl to make out with on the dance floor, and later pick up a hot guy—another stranger—and wind up at his house fucking and partying till sunrise.

As I looked at my students that afternoon I paused to really look at them—get out of my spinning head. Bright-eyed and smiling, they were so innocent and curious, unaware of what lurked behind the lady in the plaid knee-length skirt and pink sweater. Despite my insatiable compulsion to rage, being in the presence of these sweet adolescents created a calming and comforting atmosphere, a safe sanctuary for me.

I felt reassured knowing that their futures stretched unsullied in front of them, full of possibility. I’d flushed that option long ago when I first got drunk. I was exactly their age. Twelve.

I already knew that the following day I’d feel like I had been run over. The students would be loud and rambunctious, the overhead lights in the classroom alarmingly bright, the nausea in my stomach rising. On days like these, lessons felt like they dragged and dragged. I just had to hang on till 3:15 dismissal. I knew it because this morning had begun the same way.

At the end of that night I went home alone. I flung off my strappy black heels and tossed my purse on the couch. I slipped off my black jeans, push-up bra and lacy black tank—black, a color that made me feel both powerful and invisible. Then I ran to the bathroom and threw up all over my newly renovated white tiled floor. I got down on my knees, lifted the toilet bowl seat, and continued to vomit.

Chest exploding with angst, I drank the last sip of beer, inhaled the final pinch of marijuana and snorted the remnants of cocaine until the supply was dry. I vomited again—the coke was potent. My body convulsed as bile heaved out of my mouth. I hadn’t eaten since lunch, there were only drugs fueling my system.

After tossing and turning all night with barely a wink of sleep, the alarm clock signaled that it was time for me to face the school day—at one of the most prestigious Upper West Side schools in

New York City, no less.

I started sweating just thinking about managing the day ahead. And I was overcome by angst thinking of the night, and nights, I was racking up—chaos and conflict, seemingly irreconcilable.

Dizzy and disoriented, I got up and scrambled around looking for weed to roll into my cigarette, but it had run out. I stepped into my bathtub, opened the tiny window, and lit a Parliament Light before I had to wash the high away. Worried that my nosy neighbor across the hall would smell the smoke, I hung halfway out of the window.

After I stepped out of the shower, I looked in the mirror. Five- foot seven, skinny and frail, wiped clean of energy, my face was reflected, but there was nothing behind it. On my body, there were bruises all over from falling, most of which I never remembered.

I dried myself off and walked to my closet. I noticed the slinky outfit I’d worn the other night balled up in the corner, like a piece of trash. I’d worn it on the evening of the regrettable threesome.

Even though I was often blacked out, I still remembered most of it.

Two men had passed me back and forth on top of a stained mattress like a toy in between bumps and cigarettes. They stuck themselves deep inside me, double-teaming my body parts like I was a whore, a powerful position I loved, yet hated myself for it. They pinned me down and threw me in whatever position suited their animalistic desires. I lay like a ragdoll, letting them work me over. I felt like a prostitute but couldn’t resist the rush of being desired. Still, in the light of day I hated myself for it. I left the strangers’ apartment covered in greasy sweat, semen and spit and went home to get ready for school.

I put on make up to disguise my blotchy face and the dark circles under my eyes. I curled my hair into soft waves and suited up in my favorite pink sweater, worn each time it was picture day. Great, another year of being hungover in my faculty ID picture. I took a deep breath. If I could’ve helped it, I’d never exhale.

I was the model teacher.

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Chapter 1—Day One

Fall 2001

It was a brilliant September day, still warm but clear and crisp. It felt like the first day of my young adult life. I walked towards the building that would become my home for the next twelve years filled with nerves and excitement. The building that rose before me was like a gothic palace with turrets and enormous pillars, as spectacular as my accomplishment.

Finally, here I was, a teacher on the steps of one of the top institutions. Home to children of renowned actors, reporters, lawyers—scions of the powerful elite. And I was to be their guide.

I never imagined I’d wind up at such an exclusive school. I felt proud of my tenacity to get here.

Dressed in my Banana Republic army-green button-down dress with brown flats, hair neatly blown and parted to the side, I looked and felt the part. Inside, the stone floors glistened. Fresh paint coated the dim, yellow walls. Hiking up five flights of stairs at 7:30, I reached the top floor dizzy and out of breath from years of smoking. Brimming with excitement, I wanted to finish decorating my walls with bright posters of Spanish greetings and expressions. I’d been hired to be the Spanish teacher for grades 7- 11, having studied it continuously since 4th grade. After straightening the students’ desks, I sat down and reviewed my attendance roster once more to ensure that I could pronounce everyone’s names correctly.

I’d always loved and wanted to help kids—mentor them through the often-turbulent times of adolescence—give them the emotional guidance I’d sorely lacked growing up. But the truth, I would eventually come to understand, was if you never got it, you could never give it—you’re meagerly grasping to get by.

Nonetheless, facing these new students, I was riddled with nerves. I didn’t know what to expect—how the kids would react, whether they would like me, what sort of teacher I would become.

My jitters would soon become something else.

To begin the first day of your new career—to begin a story for that matter—on this ironically gorgeous day in September, what would forever be known as 9/11, feels both horrific and audacious. But these were the facts.

The first period bell rang. Ten eighth-graders filed into the classroom, all in dress code—white or a navy-blue polo shirt and some form of khakis or a solid color skirt. The students sat in seats one by one, trying to score a place next to their friends. I didn’t know what had already happened.

I expected them to be jittery and excited for their first day of school with a new teacher, but instead I was met with uncertain faces and shaky voices. I instantly sensed that something was wrong.

The World Trade Center was hit, one girl announced, stone faced.

What are you talking about?

The World Trade Center was hit by a plane, she repeated, as she threw her oversized backpack on the blue, carpeted floor.

What’s your name? I asked.

I’m Lauren. What are we supposed to do? I noticed her hands were trembling.

Lauren, have a seat. I’ll see what’s up, I said as the rest of the students filed into the classroom.

Eighth graders, take any open seat. Please take out your planners and something to write with, I said confidently.

What are you talking about? one boy with long, brown hair said in disbelief.

I think we should get out of NYC before we are all murdered!

Suddenly, a deep, loud voice came over the PA: Teachers, please report downstairs to the gymnasium. Close your classroom doors and escort your students as fast as possible.

As we all scurried out of the classroom to the steps, murmurs filled the hall.

I want to get out of here. It’s Armageddon. Our city is burning, a panicked boy shouted.

Do you think it was an accident, Ms. Smith? Lauren asked, attaching herself to me.

I have no idea. I’m sure we’ll know more when we get downstairs, I responded as best I could.

Our group merged with other distressed children as we all pounded down the steps. Kids crying, the girls holding onto each other tight, petting each other’s heads, everyone wailing in unison.

My initial joy had turned to panic.

In the gym, students were scattered everywhere like a refugee camp. Bodies on the floor, restless solitary kids circling the edge, packs of pacing boys, everyone trapped in a frozen netherworld. Faculty was directing them to be seated in an orderly fashion on the floor, but no one was listening. There was no order to be had and everyone knew it.

Sifting through the crowd, I bumped into Josephine, one of the teachers I’d met during the summer orientation. She was wearing black slacks and a green button-down shirt—very professional.

What’s going on? The Twin Towers were hit by planes? I asked, terrified.

Yes, the buildings were hit and apparently both just collapsed, she said.

Are you serious? I asked.

Yeah, they’re saying it was a terrorist attack.

Oh my God, thousands of people work in those buildings. I can’t imagine. I really can’t grasp what the hell is happening.

Is there a television in the school or computer access so that we can see the news? I asked.

No, there isn’t one TV in this entire building. Can you believe it?

What? You’re joking! What school doesn’t have a TV? I gaped.

And I tried to get on the Internet in the faculty room but there’s no service. I spoke with my boyfriend. He said he doesn’t have Internet either, Josephine said.

Man, does he work downtown?

No, his business is in Queens, thankfully.

Holy shit, I can’t imagine how crazy it is down there. I feel like we’re trapped in a fucking bubble here.

Oh my God, my sister’s office is right near there, I said, my panic rising.

Don’t worry, I’m sure she’s ok.

She better be, or else I’ll die.

Try to call her, Josephine said in a cold, commanding voice that threw me off.

Slipping into the girl’s locker room off the gym, I frantically called Hannah.

Amazingly, my cell phone worked, and within minutes, I was able to talk with her. Her voice was shaky. Nonetheless, I was filled with a rush of gratitude and relief to know she and everyone in our family was safe. She told me to meet her at her apartment in Greenwich Village after work and not to take the subway or a bus. Without hesitation, I complied. I trusted anything my older sister told me. Nearly three years older, she had always been my world—my guide.

Since we were little girls, she protected and adored me like I was her own child. I turned to her for everything: decision- making, writing resumes, work advice, boyfriends, breakups, and family issues. Our parents were distracted by their own difficulties.

I sat down on the bench and stared at the lockers. Suddenly, what had happened downtown hit me in a sickening rush. Who would do something so twisted, so evil? How many dead?

I stood up, feeling faint, dizzy, and walked to the sink and splashed cold water on my face. Stepping out of the locker room, I looked around to see the students and teachers running around. Mostly everyone was crying. Whispers floated in the gymnasium—I live right near there…my apartment may have been destroyed…my father is a journalist who covers big stories…my mother works in the building…they think it was a terrorist attack. Seconds later, Mr. Gold made an announcement with a handheld microphone:

I’d like to confirm that two planes have hit the World Trade Center. Please, don’t worry. You’re all safe. There’s nothing to be scared of. The school will be on lockdown. Students are only permitted to leave the building if a parent or known guardian signs them out. Teachers and staff are required to stay at school until the end of the day. There will be a faculty meeting on the fourth floor after the last period bell. Everyone must attend.

Within minutes, the entire school body was instructed to go back up to our classrooms to teach third period and continue until 3:15 p.m. when the school day ended.

Was Mr. Gold serious? Josephine and I looked at each other completely baffled.

Returning to my classroom, I sat down